


The Woman Will Cry

by rude_not_ginger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:34:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2160795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rude_not_ginger/pseuds/rude_not_ginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a time to live and a time to die.  What would happen if Sherlock Holmes died in "His Last Vow"?  One character makes his deduction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Woman Will Cry

_Mrs. Hudson will cry._

_And Mummy and Daddy will cry._

_And the Woman will cry._

_And John will cry buckets and buckets._

_It's him that I worry about the most._

This is a tale of what-if, Sherlock. Are you listening? I'm telling it to you. What if, in fact, you did die. The bullet that Mrs. Watson fired on that fateful evening in Magnussen's office did kill you. It tore through your heart and you died.

Oops. I think we both know that wasn't _really_ her intention, but let's just pretend, for the sake of argument, that it was. And you're dead. Very dead, Sherlock. The kind of dead that's never coming back. No magical resurrections, no miracle cures and no mystical farms off in the south of France for you to live in.

You're dead.

Your little list, the one that your favorite villain told you in your mind palace, well, that would be reversed. John would be the first to know. Even if he weren’t there. He would know because you have him listed under everything. He gets your flat, he gets your portion of the Holmes' estate. In fact, apart from the family objects that go to me, I think everything goes to him. 

Don't worry. I wouldn't insult you by being the one to tell him, in the unlikely event that he wasn't there. I would tell Lestrade, or Dr. Hooper. Someone who would be kind enough to break the news _appropriately_.

But we're in this what-if. This fantasy. This _now_ , Sherlock. You're dead because of Mrs. Watson. She's killed you. She's killed you and you're sitting cold on a slab. And John Watson isn't crying. He's too angry.

Magnussen's life, at this point, would be forfeit. As far as I am aware, he murdered my little brother. So I would have him removed, excised. He can't die, not properly, and certainly not by my hand. But he can be found with extensive amounts of inappropriate child pornography on his computer and he can be removed to institutions where I know he will be… _injured_ daily. That, to me, will be my gift to you.

It may stun you, but I am certain that I will miss that another person was in the room with you and Magnussen. I will be far too… _distraught_. I'm not one to cry, however. That is something that I and your…friend John Watson have in common. Crying for me is a waste of time. Crying for him is a waste of precious resources.

You see, John cried over you exactly once in the time that I can remember after your suicide. And I was watching very carefully, as you requested. He shed a grand total of about five seconds worth of tears over your grave, and then pulled his little soldier heart together and stepped away. Pushed it all down. _Repressed_ , as they do.

In this story, this what-if, Sherlock, the crying comes later.

First, there is the Woman. Irene Adler. Oh, yes. I know she's alive. I always knew she was alive. Because your death---while I know you don't believe this, your death would hurt me. Truly, and to the core. I know this doesn't matter to you, but to me, the end of your life would crush me completely. So I would contact her.

I would contact her for you, Sherlock. And I would tell her that you were dead.

Don't roll your eyes. She would believe me. She's very good at telling the truth from a lie. And my heart would be truly broken if you were to die.

The Woman, however. Your Irene Adler. Clever and cruel as she is, she will be different. In our fantasy, let's put her in Mozambique. She'll be sitting on the top floor of a hotel in Maputo, looking out at the African waters when she hears the news. Shall we be descriptive? Should her hair be down, Sherlock? Do you want her to have her lipstick on?

She is an interesting creature, your Woman. She's like us in so many ways, but so few at the same time. Oh, yes, she would cry. She would wait until I was off of the phone, and then she would book a flight. She would be in London, she'd have come to the morgue and stood over your corpse, and then she'd have gone back to her hotel before she finally cried. 

A full-body cry, I think. Don't you? The sort that involves curling up, falling into oneself. You and her have twisted yourselves too much into each other, I imagine she would have felt like she'd lost a good part of herself, don't you think? Not unlike you, standing in your flat like you'd lost your legs and your appetite and your will to live. Little wonder John lied to you about her dying. He was probably terrified that you would actually die.

Irene Adler, however, she would not die. She would cry and cry until she found her anger. And her anger, that's something that attracts you. It starts in those long fingernails and goes all the way down to her heels. You two deserve each other. Or you would, except in this fantasy you're dead.

But she would go to the scene, and she would have anger, where I had grief. She would use what I was missing. Maybe she'd go to John---what do you think? Would she be that desperate? Go to him for help?

Would they work it out together?

What I do know is, she would be the one to pull the trigger. She would make certain that Mary Watson died, not so much for you, I think. More for herself. For the part of her that died with you.

And even if John knew, even if he'd uncovered it, he would cry. His wife, his love, the mother of his unborn child. He would cry. What is it that man said? Buckets. Buckets and buckets.

_She didn't hit your heart, Sherlock._

_You have to live._

**Author's Note:**

> For Lyrangalia.


End file.
